


the best and worst of times

by orphan_account



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, British Singers RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Irish Actor RPF, Little Women (2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Depression, Drug Abuse, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Promiscuity, Sad Timothée Chalamet, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Timmy tries to keep calm and carry on, with a little help from his friends.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer, Timothée Chalamet/Florence Pugh, Timothée Chalamet/Harry Styles, Timothée Chalamet/Saoirse Ronan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. sleepwalker

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sort of follow-up to my _appelle-moi par ton nom (call me by your name)_ series, but can be read standalone. The context and dialogue will reveal everything that came to pass in the series. Basically, after what's happened, Timothée is a sadboi and he needs someone to help him through his suffering.

When he heard the soft ring of a new notification, Timothée typed in his passcode to unlock his phone. His heart beat faster when he saw that he had a new DM on Instagram, but it immediately plummeted when he saw that it wasn’t from Armie. Instead, out of the blue, he had gotten a message from one of the last people he expected to hear from.

_Hi Timothée,_

_I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I just now finally got round to seeing the little impression you made of me last month when you hosted SNL. The clothes were spot on, but your accent could use a bit of work...and I don’t talk **quite** that fast. I hope you’re doing well. As well as can be expected. The next time we’re on the same coast, we have to meet up! Sorry to be so brief, I’ve got to get back to work. You know how that goes._

_Cheers!  
Harry 🍉_

Timothée laughed at the sentiment of the message and the emoji at the end. He hadn’t been in touch with Harry Styles at all since his phone interview with him for i-D magazine, which had been around his birthday just over a year ago. Suddenly hearing from him now, after more than a year of silence, sent a massive wave of dread crashing over him.

He felt so anxious that he walked downstairs to the kitchen for a drink. First he turned on the tap in the sink, wet a paper towel, and wiped his forehead. Timothée groaned and lamented that in the span of four weeks he had gone from being a relatively stoic - if not necessarily well-adjusted - young man into a fundamentally depressed, joyless insomniac who needed pills to function.

In addition to the 50mg of trazodone he took to combat his melancholia and help him sleep, Timothée had also been prescribed 0.5mg of clonazepam to calm him down when he fell into the grip of a panic attack.

He took a can of Coke from the fridge and unscrewed the lid of the clonazepam bottle. He stared at the little orange tablet for a minute before he put it on his tongue and chewed it to a dry powder that tasted vaguely like knockoff Smarties. He popped the tab on the Coke and took a swig.

Timothée sat on a bar at the kitchen island and decided to call Pauline while he waited for it to kick in. The phone rang four times before she answered with a groggy _“Allô?”_

“Hey sis! It’s me, your wayward, errant little brother. How are things in _Saint-Germain-des-Prés_?”

“Timmy, it’s 4:00 in the morning here. I’m trying to sleep. Not that I don’t love hearing from you, but why are you calling me now? Are you alright?”

“No.” Timothée tried to elaborate as he sobbed and broke down. _“Il m'a quitté. Il y a entre deux et quatre jours. Je ne me souviens plus.”_

“Oh my god!” Pauline gasped in sympathetic horror. “Why in the world would he - what happened?”

“He…” Timothée sniffled and squeezed his eyes shut. “He has a lot of stuff going on right now. He went back to the Cayman Islands to sort it out. He said he was going to be in touch with me somehow every day, but he hasn’t been. It’s been...Pauline, how long has it been? What day is it?”

“It’s the 20th. You know, the dawning of a new era for the United States. Hell, for that matter, for the entire world.”

“So it’s still the 19th here, then. At least for another couple of hours. Okay, so it’s been three days then. It’s kind of like what happened during the holidays. But his phone crapped out then. Surely that hasn’t happened again?”

“I doubt it, Timmy. The way I see it, it’s one of two things: the man’s so busy he can’t take the time to talk to you, or he’s trying to distance himself from you and he won’t take the time. What the fuck, Timmy? You’ve known the man for nearly five years, salivated after him while he was married with children, and then after you were together for a little fortnight fling, you’re ready to throw your entire life away for him.”

“Wow, Pauline. I hope you didn’t give yourself whiplash backpedaling that fast. Just last week you said, and I quote, ‘...he clearly means the world to you, so I guess I’ll just have to learn to love him too.’ ”

“Yeah, but at the time you didn’t want to listen. What I said to you last month in the hospital is still how I feel. I love you, Timothée. You were in love with the guy and you didn’t want to hear anyone say anything remotely negative about him. You were so jealous and insecure you were ready to take a knife and commit seppuku when you saw photos of him out walking with someone in LA. Jesus, Timmy, don’t do anything stupid!”

_“Je ne ferai rien, Pauline. Je te promets.”_

“Somehow, that doesn’t entirely convince me. How long do you have until you wrap shooting for this movie?”

“Oh, about two weeks, give or take a few days. Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll at least text you every day, just to let you know I’m still breathing. I mean, I can’t lie to you and say it doesn’t fucking hurt, but I am. Still breathing, I mean.”

Timothée sighed and lay his head down on the counter as he began to feel the effects of the clonazepam.

“I’m getting pretty tired, sis. I’m gonna go to bed. I’ll text you in the morning on my way to the set. _Bonne nuit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _“Il m'a quitté. Il y a entre deux et quatre jours. Je ne me souviens plus.”_  
>  \-----> "He left me. It's been between two and four days. I don't remember anymore."
> 
>  _“Je ne ferai rien, Pauline. Je te promets.”_  
>  \-----> "I'm not going to do anything, Pauline. I promise.
> 
>  _"Bonne nuit"_  
>  \-----> "Good night."


	2. eachtrannach (foreigners)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy talks to a friend and makes a plan.

_**“I told you.”** _

Those three words were spoken with such apparent vitriol that Timothée shivered and felt the wet, hot rush of tears form in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath and took a hit off of the blunt of Blue Dream he’d bought from a college kid in the Walmart parking lot in Salem.

“What the hell, Saoirse? I haven’t seen you in almost a year. What did you tell me that I’m meant to have kept in mind all this time?”

“I told you to keep in touch with me! I miss you, Timmy!” Saoirse’s voice rose. She almost squeaked. “You’ve no idea how much.”

“Oh, I can guess.” Timothée grinned in the mirror sheepishly. “I am pretty great, aren’t I? And one of the best friends you’ve ever had. Unless you were lying to me that day in Concord.”

“Christ, Timmy, you can remember that, but you can’t remember to pick up your phone and call me once in a while?”

“Mm, that road goes both ways. You could have picked up a phone and called me. We could have Skyped. We could have FaceTimed. I guess I remembered that because I’m really close to where we filmed Little Women. I’m filming in Boston, but I’m staying in Belmont. That’s about 12 miles from Concord, give or take.”

“Er, that’s cool. It’s too bad I’m across the pond, or else I’d invite you to lunch and catch up. I really do miss you, Timmy.”

“Yeah, I miss you too.” Timothée blinked furiously to try to stop the tears that trickled down his cheek. He took another toke and blew smoke on the mirror to cloud his reflection. “Where are you, exactly?”

“I’m at home in Greystones. I haven’t gotten out much since last spring. It’s a good job I’m so close to my parents, but as I’ve said, I’ve missed you and my other _eachtrannach_ friends terribly.”

“Your...what friends?” Timothée finished off the blunt, rolled it up in a wad of toilet paper, and threw it away. He ran his fingers through his hair and thought that as soon as filming wrapped, he was going to make an appointment with a hairdresser. He clung to a tuft of his thick brown tendrils, desperate to distract himself so Saoirse wouldn’t catch on that he was crying.

“ _Eachtrannach_. Foreigners, non-Irish, like yourself, and Florence, and Gerda, etc.”

“Oh. Well damn, that’s like most of the people you know! I guess if you’re just talking about citizenship, yeah, I’m American. But then, so are you, since you were born here. You’re from the Bronx, right, just like my family.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” Timothée could practically hear Saoirse beaming. “Your mam’s family is, anyway. But then you have to consider that a good part of you is French, too. Like half of ya.”

“No, see, that’s the funny part. I’m actually only ¼ French. Mémé is actually Canadian, of English descent. So Dad’s ½ English and ½ French, while Mom’s ½ Austrian-Jewish and ½ Polish-Jewish, but all-American. My bad, Saoirse. I hope I’m not boring you, going on and on about this family tree shit.”

“Not at all, Timmy. I find it fascinating, like. As far as I know, I’m 100% Irish on both sides of my family. Maybe somewhere down the line I’ve some Scots or English ancestors, but over time the blood’s been pretty diluted.”

“Mm-hmm.” Timothée sighed as the sound of Saoirse’s voice started to give him wood. He muted the call, lifted the lid of the toilet, and pulled his pants and boxers down. 

He rubbed and tugged until he came with a low whine. He flushed and turned around to sit on the toilet, feeling dirty and despondent.

_“Did you hear a word I just said?”_ Saoirse’s tone was shrill when he unmuted the call. She sounded like she was close to tears.

“No, sorry, Saoirse. What did you say?”

“I said that I’m going to California the first week in February. I don’t know if you’ll be quite done with filming then, but when you are, I asked if you’d want to come stay with me for a while?”

“Saoirse, do you really mean that?” Timothée’s voice wavered. He sounded so lost and forlorn that Saoirse sobbed.

“Of course I do! You’re one of my best friends in this life. And you just - I don’t know, you seem pretty down. You’ve been distant from me for long enough. I want you with me, Timmy. I love ya.”

“I...Jesus, Saoirse. I love you, too. You actually have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”

“Eh, you could’ve fooled me. At first you acted like hearing from me was the last thing you wanted.”

“No no, that’s not it. It was your tone, at first. I guess it kind of...triggered something in me. I’m so happy to hear from you, and I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise. Oh, that’s cool you’re gonna be in California, because guess what? I got a DM from Harry Styles yesterday. He said we need to get together next time we’re on the same coast. Me and him, I mean.”

“Ooh, that’s perfect! He’s shooting a film with Florence out there. Maybe the four of us can meet up and do something!” Saoirse was so excited that she crowed, and Timothée smiled so widely his cheeks hurt.

“Whoa, calm down, Saoirse. I haven’t even responded yet. But, seeing as you’re all gung-ho about it, and I wrap up my scenes on February 1, you already know I’m coming. I’ll reply to him and put the idea out there. Now, where exactly is it that we’re going?”

_**“Oh my God!”**_ Saoirse yelped so loudly that Timothée held the phone away from his ear. “You’ve no idea how excited I am!”

“Mm, I think I have an inkling.” Timothée grinned and set his phone on the sink countertop. He put Saoirse on speaker. “I haven’t heard you squeal like that since that old audio clip of you when you won that trip to Florida when you were a kid. Simmer down.”

“Oh feck off! Let me know what Harry says. I’ll email you details about the place.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I know, Saoirse Ronan doesn't speak fluent Irish. She mentioned in one interview on The Graham Norton Show that during production of _Mary, Queen of Scots_ , she learned a few Irish phrases from a friend of hers and that they'd use Irish words when talking about others so they wouldn't understand.
> 
> The reference to Saoirse squealing while winning the trip to Florida is a reference to another Graham Norton interview she did about two years ago with Timmy, when they played the audio of her as a child entering a contest to win the trip.


	3. take ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy responds to Harry's message.

_Hi Harry,_

_I’m sorry to get back to you so late. I’m glad to hear you liked my impression of you - it sounds so much nicer to say than that it was an ‘imitation.’ “Imitation is,” as they say, “the sincerest form of flattery.” I just hope you know that I have a ton of respect for you, man._

_I don’t know if I’d say I’m doing ‘well’ lately, but I’m staying busy. Now, since you bring up the subject of us maybe meeting up...I recently found out that I will be in California from the first week of February until the end of March. I’m going to be staying with Saoirse Ronan at an old hacienda in Riverside County. It’s called Rancho Reinicio. It’s a real ranch. They have horses and everything._

_Anyway, sorry to go on. In a nutshell, Saoirse wants me to ‘make you aware’ of our plans, and to invite you and Florence - if she wants - to come out and visit us there at some point. We’ll be about two hours from Palm Springs. As you may know, Florence is a former castmate and mutual friend of mine and Saoirse’s._

_That’s a lot to put on you at once, sorry. Please think it over and let me know what you decide. Oh, and please tell Florence I said ‘hi.’_

_Take care,  
Timothée_ 🍑

Timothée paused to re-read the message, and briefly considered deleting the peach emoji before deciding the hell with it and hitting send. Harry had a good sense of humor, and he could appreciate the joke. Timothée had resigned himself to the fact that peaches would forever be entwined with his name in pop cultural imagination, as watermelons undoubtedly would be with Harry’s.

He pulled up the email Saoirse had sent him with a link to place they were going and looked over it again. Rancho Reinicio was nestled away in the Riverside Mountains, far from any roads or towns. It was the home of one Guadalupe de Aguirre, a wealthy Mexican equestrian who lived there six months of the year and rented it out the other half.

Timothée had only had one semester of Spanish in high school, but he thought the name meant something along the lines of ‘Restart Ranch.’ It seemed like the perfect place for him to spend the last weeks of winter, to rest, regroup, and figure out what he was going to do next.

“No pressure.” He walked downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of milk. In just over a week, he had a lot to do. He needed to buy a plane ticket, pack his stuff, and inform his family what he would be up to, on top of the daily grind of 10-12 hour workdays and the pain of just being alive.

“Good god, is it really that bad?” Timothée was starting to depress himself further, a downward spiral that he would have to get a hold of if he wanted to avoid being committed to McLean.

He tried to distract himself by reading about the ranch again. In addition to being a vacation spot for bored, depressed, or otherwise aimless rich people, Rancho Reinicio also boarded and bred horses. Because the ranch was so remote, a worker traveled as needed approximately 25 miles to the nearest town to pick up more supplies. The ranch had a swimming pool, cable, wi-fi, riding trails, a bowling alley, laundromat, and even a movie theater.

All in all, it had everything anyone would need to feel comfortable as they tried to get a little taste of life way out in the sticks, without having to actually give anything up except their money.

At $300 a night, Timothée calculated that over their stay they would spend more money than some people made in a year. He felt a wave of guilt, and shook his head to try to clear it from his mind. It was either the ranch, or a stupidly expensive stay at a psychiatric facility or rehab center. 

Earlier that morning, his agent Stacy had cornered him in his trailer. A skinny, short redhead who kept her hair cut short just above her shoulders, she was an intimidating figure as she locked the trailer door. She crossed her arms and loomed over him with a glare that would have curdled milk.

“What is going on with you, Timothée? Don’t try any evasive, vague shit with me. You better be straight with me, or I’m gonna call the agency and shut this thing down. You’ll stall production even further, and when we’re this close to the finish line, is that something you really wanna do? Heck, I’ll call your mom, too. You know I will.”

“N-no, don’t do that, Stacy. I’m just...I guess I’m a little sad. Me and the, uh, person I’ve been seeing are taking a break from each other.”

Seeing her eyes soften, Timothée unlocked his phone and pulled up the website for the ranch from his bookmarks. “In a week or so, I’m going to this place way out in the Riverside Mountains with Saoirse. It’s like a wellness retreat and a dude ranch rolled into one. I’ll get to ride a horse, go swimming, watch movies, etc. We’re planning to stay through the end of March.”

“Hm.” Stacy gripped her chin with her thumb and forefinger. In that moment, she looked and acted every bit like a stereotypical concerned, overprotective Jewish mother, even though she was Irish Catholic and a year younger than him.

“I think that’s a good idea,” she finally said after about a minute. “If you promise me you can hold it together until you finish filming, I won’t breathe a word of this to anyone. God knows, the last thing you need is to have paparazzi sniffing around. Post-production will take about 12 weeks, which will give you plenty of time. Alright, I’ll give you a minute to call your mom. See you back on set in 10.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McLean Hospital is a famous psychiatric hospital in Belmont that over the years has had a lot of high-profile patients like Sylvia Plath, Susanna Kaysen, Steve Tyler, David Foster Wallace, and Anne Sexton, among others.


	4. ish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Timmy wakes up on the wrong side of the bed.

On the morning that marked one week since Armie left him, Timothée rolled over in his bed and on top of the pale, lanky twink he had drunkenly picked up and brought back from Boston for a one-nighter. 

“Sorry,” he grumbled apologetically when the man grunted in pain. “I didn’t think you’d actually sleep over. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but why the fuck are you still here?”

“Jeez, after last night that’s about the last thing I expected you to say. We went at it for hours. Your hips are _fucking **pistons**_ , pun intended.”

“Um, cool. Thanks, I guess. It’s nice to know someone can appreciate my...talents. So, do you need me to call an Uber for you, you need money for a train ticket? I kind of have to go to work, so either way you have to leave.”

Timothée yawned and crawled out of bed to go to the bathroom, leaving the door open as he lifted the lid.

“So...what’s your name?” he asked, hearing the man rustle around in the bedroom, presumably putting his clothes back on. He didn’t really care, but he felt somewhat embarrassed about it.

He was more embarrassed about his indifference than the fact that he had basically gone cruising, and was now standing in front of the guy with his dick in his hand.

“You can call me Ishmael.” The man cackled and waved at Timothée when he looked over his shoulder at him. He had taken the jeans, shirt and denim jacket Timothée had worn the night before and put them on. He looked like a shorter, skinnier version of Armie when he’d been in _The Social Network_. A discount, knockoff version.

“Ishmael, okay,” Timothée said mildly, ignoring the blunt reference to Moby Dick. “So you like my clothes. Please, dear god, tell me that you aren’t wearing my boxers, too.”

‘Ishmael’ smirked. “Nope, I’m not wearing anything under my kilt, so to speak. I find that cotton’s itchy and it chafes. I have to let the boys breathe, you know.”

“Right. Whatever.” Timothée flushed and washed his hands. He shook them dry over the sink and turned to see that the man was staring at him. “Can I help you?”

He snorted and shook his head. “Nah, I’ve gotten about all the help I’m going to get from you, _baby_.”

In a flash, Timothée tore across the room and wrapped his hands around the man's neck. 

He had a blank look in his eyes as he exerted pressure on his neck. It was not until he grabbed a hold of his hair and pulled it that Timothée let go.

“Whoa, what the hell, man!” ‘Ishmael’ wheezed and rubbed the purple finger-shaped bruises on his neck. “Who’d have thought Elio was such a fuckin’ psychopath?!”

“Shut up! Don’t call me that.” Timothée’s face turned beet-red with rage as he balled his hands into fists. 

“And don’t even think about trying to tell some sleazeball journalist that you hooked up with the guy from _Call Me By Your Name_. I may not know who you are yet, but I know people who can find out. And they can make your life a living hell.”

“You’re bluffing.” The man frowned uncertainly and bit his lower lip.

“I might be, sure, but is that a chance you really want to take? Who’s gonna take the word of some coked up gigolo nobody over that of one of the brightest stars in Hollywood? Or, if you should try it, I guess there’ll be one less coked up gigolo on the streets. All I have to do is make a call, and it’ll be like ordering off a Chinese menu. I know a guy who’ll cut off your fingers one by one, your toes, your balls. I’ll tell him to cut them off with a pair of shears and shove them so far down your throat you strangle.”

“I...goddamn, dude.” The man’s eyes darted nervously toward the door as he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I think I better just go.”

“You got that right. Now fuck off.”

Timothée went back into the bathroom and slammed the door. He looked in the mirror and spread his hand over his face. He was ghastly pale, and his eyes had such dark rings around them that he looked like he’d been punched.

He yanked the bathroom cabinet open so roughly that he nearly broke its hinges. He cringed slightly at the sound as the mirror cracked on impact with the wall. He reached for the bottle of clonazepam and shook out three tablets into his palm.

Altogether it was 1.5mg, the maximum daily dose. Oh well, he thought as he placed all three tablets on his tongue. He turned on the tap, cupped his hands in the flow, and drank them down in one swallow.

Almost immediately, Timothée felt a lot better in knowing that soon he wouldn’t feel much of anything at all. 

For a period of 8-12 hours, he wouldn’t feel the crushing weight of rejection; the uncertainty and fear about the future; the guilt of putting his hands on and threatening someone he had been intimate with, even if he was just a meaningless hookup. He hadn’t wanted to do it, but the moment the man had called him ‘baby,’ Timothée snapped.

“What’s wrong with me? What the heck is happening to me?”

For a second, he considered calling Adam and telling him he needed the day off. Either that, or he thought about calling Saoirse and telling her he had changed his mind about the trip.

As he was deliberating, Timothée heard the series of rings that meant he had a new DM on Instagram. He opened the app and saw that Harry had replied to him.

_Hey Timothée,_

_The place sounds great! I floated the idea to Florence, and she can’t wait to see you two._

_We’ll be in touch._

_Cheers,  
Harry_ 🍉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'Adam' is Adam McKay, the director for _Don't Look Up_.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:  
>  _“Il m'a quitté. Il y a entre deux et quatre jours. Je ne me souviens plus.”_  
>  \-----> "He left me. It's been between two and four days. I don't remember anymore."
> 
>  _“Je ne ferai rien, Pauline. Je te promets.”_  
>  \-----> "I'm not going to do anything, Pauline. I promise.
> 
>  _"Bonne nuit"_  
>  \-----> "Good night."


End file.
